The Capital Courier
by Orange Rain
Summary: The tragic story of broken innocence, lost love, and a life without hope. Can the Courier find her way and learn to live again?
1. Two In The Head

**I do not own Fallout 3 or New Vegas, or any Fallouts. I do not lay claim to anything in the Fallout universe and this is not for profit.**

Credit goes to Rubrik079 on deviantart for the plot idea.

* * *

><p>The night was dark, the stars were shining bright, and the wind was gusting over the rolling Nevada desert. The sounds of nightlife echoed across the plains; animal calls... screams... gun shots.<p>

Ah, the Mojave...

Ah, Vegas... a land of sin and vice, corruption, greed, murder... a jewel - a beacon - in the wasteland; calling out to people in every direction. It's brilliant lights shine bright in a land of darkness. The only unscarred place that exists in this hellish post-nuclear world, and as such, just another stage for the grand struggle of powers.

War never changes...

From the random drugged out raider gang; to the merchants of the arms and caravan trade; and the mighty armies of great civilizations. Vegas was the prize, it's unscathed landscape a treasure for two bit authoritarians, wannabes, and powers alike.

A treasure that men were willing to die for... kill for... pay enormous sums of caps to shape.

And yet through it all Vegas is still... Vegas. It would always be Vegas. A city that's sirens call would lure fortune seekers from all over, tempted by the thoughts of riches, treasure, and a quick score. Yet, the result was always the same. It would draw them in, bleed them dry, take everything they had, then spit them out and move on to its next victim. Because that's what Vegas was- a parasite, and the powers of the Mojave were caught in her trap.

But not all the players in the game were part of this cycle. There are people that are just trying to get by, trying to live their own solitary lives and make the most of a sad, sorry existence. The games of wasteland powers mean nothing to these people... their minds are on the more pressing matters of providing for family, putting food on the table, avoiding rape by raiders, or being killed and buried in a ditch by hired goons.

"You got what you were after, so pay up."

"You're crying in the rain pally."

I'm not doing so well with that last bit, I think as I open my eyes, seeing the checkered suit and his thugs for hire standing over me, my arm having been tied at the waist.

You see I am not some random fortune seeker trying to find my way, I'm not some power broker looking to stack the deck for whatever imagined cause they have, I don't want fame, I don't want fortune or glory. Fuck all that. I'm here because there's no where else for me to be. I have no home, I have no family, I have no purpose... nothing to live for.

I am a drifter from a far off land, a vagabond... a Courier. I deliver anonymous packages to anonymous people in this shit hole, just to have something to do, some reason not to blow my brains out. I drag myself through the tortures of wasteland life, day after day, just so other people can stuff their pockets and consolidate power.

Why do I do it? Is it for some misguided ideal, a faint glimmer of hope for some kind of future? Or is it simply because I'm too chicken-shit to put one between my eyes?

"Looks like our little one-armed bitch is waking up over here!"

Oh yeah, did I mention I only have one arm? Yeah, life dealt me a real shit sandwich.

Suit sighs and puts out a cigarette. "Time to cash out."

I hate him already.

"Would you get it over with?"

"Maybe Khans kill people without looking them in the face, but I ain't a fink, dig?"

Oh yeah, he's a smooth one. Some big wig from the strip I'd wager, using the Khans to do his dirty work so he can keep his hands clean. I think of how nice it would be to see his pretty little hair splattered with his pretty little brains. I HATE that haircut.

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out some kind of... chip?

Huh.

I'm about to die for a fucking poker chip.

Yeah, that's my life in a nutshell.

"You've made your last delivery kid. Sorry you got twisted up in this scene." He pulls out a gun. "From where you're kneeling it must seem like an eighteen karat run of bad luck."

You don't even know what bad luck is fuckface! If I get out of this I'll give you a personal lesson!

"Truth is, the game was rigged from the start."

The gun goes off. Blissful darkness at last.


	2. Waking Up

Pain. A splitting headache is the first thing my mind registers. Like it had been beaten in with a sledgehammer, then run over with a truck. I raise my left arm to rub my head... only to remember that I have no left arm. Yeah, I still catch myself doing that sometimes.

Groggily, I open my eyes and wince at the bright light, I blink a few times and am greeted with the hazy image of a rotating ceiling fan.

"You're awake. How 'bout that?"

I quickly sit up, startled by the voice and my surroundings, and dazed with pain.

"Woah woah, easy there, easy."

I take in the man's appearance. Bald head, white mustache, red bandana around his neck. I have no idea who this guy is, much less why he's sitting in a chair at my bedside.

"You've been out cold a couple of days now. Why don't you just relax a second? Get your bearings. Let's see what the damage is. How 'bout your name? Can you tell me your name?"

I rack my brain for a moment, rubbing my forehead with my remaining hand and trying to piece together what had happened.

"Amata," I say after a second, "Amata Almodovar."

"I can't say it's what I'd have picked for you, but if that's your name then that's your name... I'm Doc Mitchell. Welcome to Goodsprings."

I stay silent, scowling from the pain in my head and the shot at my name.

"Now I hope you don't mind, but I had to go rootin around there in your noggin to pull all the bits of lead out. I take pride in my needlework, but you'd better tell me if I left anything out of place." He reaches down and hands me a mirror.

"How'd I do?"

I look into the glass and take in my appearance. My black hair is frazzled and out of place; my twenty-three year old face is dirty and lined with scars; my expression unnaturally aged and worn by three thousand miles of travel across the hellish waste of post-apocalyptic America. I glance at my forehead, noticing the new additions.

Bullet marks...

Fuckface in the suit, I remember.

I can't help but wonder who's more pathetic, him or me? He couldn't kill a tied up one-armed woman with two shots at point blank range, I can't even kill myself and won't die when others try to do it for me.

"Well, I got most of it right anyway. The stuff that mattered. Though I can't help but notice your missing arm there. I thought it was something they did to you, but seen it was just an old wound. How'd it happen?"

I fix him with a glare of ice, penetrating him to his core and forcing him to step back.

"Okay okay, I didn't mean to pry, just medical curiosity is all," he changes the subject. "No sense in keeping you in bed anymore, let's see if we can get you on your feet."

My vision becomes blurry again as baldy grabs me under the stump of my arm and begins pulling me up. I'm tempted to knee him in the groin, but that wouldn't be a very kind way to treat the person who saved my life... or would it? Maybe it would be fitting.

He lets go and I wobble for a moment until my vision clears and I find my balance.

"Good. Why don't you walk down to the end of the room, over by that vigor tester machine there. Take it slow now, it ain't a race."

I look over at the box looking machine he's referring to. It looks like some kind of old arcade game or something... I take a moment to compose myself, then begin walking over, slowly at first, then gradually slipping into my regular step as I readjust to the motion.

"Lookin' good so far."

I stop and look at the thing, seeing the old Vault-Tec Vault Boy and something called 'SPECIAL' marked on it. I glance over at Mitchell with a questioning gaze.

"Go ahead and give the vigor tester a try. We'll learn right quick whether you got back all your faculties."

I look down at it to figure out how it works, then I grip the handle and squeeze. The machine whirs for a few seconds, calculating god knows what. A waste of time and an exercise in absurdity if you ask me. Eventually it makes a cash register like sound and the numbers pop up on the screen.

**S**trength: 5

**P**erception: 6

**E**ndurance: 9

**C**harisma: 4

**I**ntelligence: 6

**A**gility: 9

**L**uck: 1

"Huh. Seems you're pretty quick and agile there. You can take a lot of punishment too. Not surprising after all you've been through."

Buddy... you have no fucking idea.

"Well, we know your vitals are good," I begin to follow him out of the room "But that don't mean them bullets didn't leave you nuttier than a Bighorner dropping."

I clench my fist and the scowl returns to my face. Oblivious, he continues into his living room, walking over to a chair.

"What do you say you take a seat on my couch and we go through a couple of questions, see if your dogs are still barkin'?"

The scowl on my face deepens, but I comply and sit down on the couch. He takes a seat as well, and the quack therapy session begins.

"All right. I'm gonna say a word. I want you to say the first thing that comes to mind."

Is he for real?

"Dog."

I guess he is. I sigh in frustration, deciding to play along just to get this shit over with.

"Cat." I say, just to oppose him.

"House."

"Burglarize." You don't get three thousand miles with just the pack on your back...

"Night."

"Shroud." Darkness hides much. I've spent many a night moving through darkness to get through hostile lands. Being a one-armed female on the road is like having a sign that says 'RAPE ME' hung around your neck.

"Bandit."

"Crush." I say, thinking of Fuckface and the Khans.

"Light."

"Dark." Darkness is all I've known since...

"Mother."

"Dead." I never even knew her. I only have vague flashes, words, and old dusty pictures... I don't even have those anymore. Just another reminder of my loneliness.

Is this shit over with yet? What does any of this fucking mean? Are word games supposed to heal a bullet through your head? Can they grow my arm back?

"Okay. Now I got a few statements. I want you to tell me how much they'd sound like something you'd say."

I grind my nails into the palm of my hand, my impatience growing. Fuckface and his buddies were getting away, and I'm stuck here with the quack...

"First one. 'Conflict just ain't in my nature'".

"Strongly disagree."

"I ain't givin to relying on others for support."

"Strongly agree." Who the fuck is left to support me?

"I'm always fixin' to be the center of attention."

"Strongly disagree." I couldn't care less about that shit anymore. I couldn't care less about much of anything really... except putting a bullet through Fuckface's head. Or maybe I'll just blow him up?

"I'm slow to embrace new ideas."

"Strongly disagree." Having one arm is a new idea in itself. It changes every aspect of your life. It forces you to find new and different ways to adapt.

"I charge in to deal with my problems head on."

"No opinion." It depends. I'm open to stealth tactics as well as frontal assault. My one-arm can be an advantage in certain situations...

"Almost done here," he reaches down and grabs some kind of... ink blot pictures.

Oh, for fuck's sake.

"What do you say you have a look at this? Tell me what you see."

"An oozing wound." I've seen plenty of that, dealt a lot of them too.

"Okay, how 'bout this one?"

It's a pussy, aren't too familiar with it huh?

"The Grand Canyon." I say instead, something I had crossed when passing through Caesar's land.

"Last one."

"A mushroom cloud."

"Well that's all she wrote."

Finally I can get out of this little shithole office...

"I don't have nothing to compare it to, so maybe you'd better just have a look at the results. See if it all seems right to you."

He hands me his notepad and pen. I glance it over, surprised to see that it's nothing more than a list of 'skills' I'm supposed to have.

It's actually pretty accurate, for quack word games and ink blots that is. My main 'skills' are lockpick, something I was always good at back in the vault; sneak, a skill I had developed to compensate for the loss of my arm; explosives, something I've relied on a LOT in my travels; and small guns, one-armed gun use was probably the hardest adjustment I had to make: the loading and cocking, maintenance and repair, recoil. I had developed a lot of strength in that arm just from holding weapons.

"It all looks good. Can I leave yet?"

"Before I turn you loose I need one more thing from you. I have a form for you to fill out so I can get a sense of your medical history."

Of course... I roll my eyes.

"Just a formality! Ain't like I expect you got a family history of getting shot in the head." He chuckles.

My body starts trembling, and my world instantly comes to a stop.

* * *

><p><em>"Father, it's me, Amata. I've come back. Are you down here?"<em>

_I'm moving through the empty halls of Vault 101, gritting my teeth in pain and clutching the newly bandaged stump of my left arm. My jumpsuit was torn and tattered, covered in rips and tears, soaked with blood, with a large, black, third-degree burn mark covering the chest._

_I pass by the clinic, the apartments, the diner. Each area bringing back a flood of memories, some pleasant, others not so. Images of a childhood past; growing up with my best friend, planning surprise birthday parties, shooting his BB gun on the reactor level. All fond memories of a more innocent time... but they were mixed with scenes of death and destruction; the day he and his father had left the vault, the radroach infestation, the psychotic vault security guards, the rebellion, and finally, the evacuation._

_The once cheerful and lively corridors were now completely bare and empty, their cold silence a mocking reminder of the disaster that had occurred. Something I still blame myself for..._

_It had started as a rebellion against my father's isolation policy. We still wanted to keep the vault as our home, we just wanted to open it; to explore, trade with the outside, see the world. __A noble and idealistic effort with the best of intentions. But it had led to chaos, conflict, and violence; the rebellion had spiraled out of control. _

_In the confusion Butch had sabotaged the vault, rendering their home uninhabitable and forcing them all to evacuate. The people had fled into the wasteland, some in fear, others in joy at the thought of escape. If only they had known what was waiting for them..._

_If only Butch had known what waited for him._

_I pass the security rooms and approach the Overseer's office, the room I had grown up in... _

_I press the keypad with my trembling hand and head inside. The room is a disaster area, like the rest of the vault. Tables are overturned, papers scattered on the floor, computers destroyed._

_"Father, are you in here? It's me, Amata."_

_I slowly approach the door of his office, wearily, dreading what I might find. I open the door with numb fingers..._

_And collapse to my knees._

_He's laying there... gun still in hand... eyes wide open... brains splattered against the wall. _

_I just stare... numbly, at the scene; too shocked to react. _

_He's holding a picture of the two of us in his other hand, taken when I was no more than ten. He must have been looking at it before..._

_In the middle of the panic he- he had told me we would leave the vault together... that we'd__ find the Lone Wanderer, settle in and make a new home for ourselves in the wasteland. But when we actually left the vault, he had turned around and sealed himself inside._

_Looking at him now, lying there... staring into his lifeless gaze... breaks through the wall I had built against the pain. The pain from losing my arm, the sabotage of our home, the deaths of the vault residents and now... I feel it shattering like a pane of glass, all of it coming down like an avalanche on top of me._

_I weep. I completely collapse and sob into the floor; the weight of my loneliness crashing down on me like a ton of bricks. __The fact that I'm an orphan, without a home, without friends, and now a cripple as well. It all hits at once, grinding down my soul and crushing my spirit._

_I scream through the halls of the vault, cursing my existence and the tragedies that had befallen me in such a short period of time._

_I know there is no future for someone like me. I had seen the world out there, experienced it first hand. It was a ruthless, barren, and desolate land filled with raiders, slavers, super mutants, the Enclave... no one can survive with one arm in such a place, and there was nothing out there worth living for anyway. All of my family... my life was here._

_And it would end here._

_I crawl over to my father's corpse and pull the pistol from his lifeless hands. My tears fall on his face as I look it over. I check the magazine for bullets with my remaining hand. It's a semi-auto. The last shot had chambered the next round, so I don't need my other hand to load it. I gently rub a bloodstain with my thumb, then clench my eyes shut and point the barrel at the side of my head. __Then I squeeze the trigger. _

_What happened next happened in slow motion. _

_There was a sudden movement. The gun was jerked in an upward motion milliseconds between the movement and the shot. The gun fired, releasing a deafening blast to my ears... but the bullet flew harmlessly into the ceiling, and__ the gun was removed from my grasp entirely._

_I sat there, numbly, for several moments; not quite grasping_ _the fact that I was still alive._

_The gun was loaded, the bullet had fired. I was supposed to be dead._

_Except I wasn't._

_I was still here... still staring at the lifeless body of my own father, still a one-armed mutilated cripple._

_But I was alive. How was I alive?_

_A hand on my shoulder. I slowly turn around._

_It's him._

_The Lone Wanderer, my best friend, and the man I've always loved._

_He looks aged, hardened, weary from his battles. His brown duster fits tightly on his muscular form and is perfectly fitting for the terrain of the wasteland and his reputation in it. He is a ranger, a symbol of order in a lawless land. A dominant force for change in the wasteland. We had heard the radio, had followed his travels from Megaton and Rivet City to Tenpenny Tower and the Citadel. The story of a vault dweller searching for his father and cutting down hordes of evil armies in his wake. They all feared him; raiders, super mutants, and the Enclave alike._

_But what strikes me the most are his eyes. He has the stare of someone who has seen too much, an innocence broken, a soul forged and remade by pain and loss. __H___is eyes bear the pain that so mirrors my own, and in that moment I know that he understands...__

__I throw myself into his embrace, burying my face in his chest and sobbing against him. He holds me tight and rests his head on top of mine.__

_The two of us... an intertwined pair who's lives were changed by the wasteland forever._

_"Amata," he whispers, gathering his words, "I know the pain of loss. I've felt it out there too. I know I can't imagine what you've been through. I know nothing I say can take away the pain you must be feeling now. But believe me when I say - the pain will lessen. It will get better, things will improve, and there will always be a reason for living. You may not realize it yet, but losing a loved one - or an arm - does not mean your life is over. It's just the beginning of a new path. Life is a long journey, you just have to take the ups with the downs, the good with the bad, and ride it out until you find your purpose. There are still so many things you can do, and so many ways to find happiness and love."_

_"Don't ever leave me. You're all I have left now." I whisper into his jacket._

_"I won't. I love you. There's nowhere you can go that I won't follow."_

_He was dead three weeks later._

* * *

><p>"Hey, are you okay?"<p>

"Huh?" I shake my head. "What?"

"You kind of spaced out there."

"Oh, it was nothing... just seeing ghosts."

He gives me a curious look, but doesn't pry any further. I look down at the form he had given me and quickly scribble in answers to the questions on it. Then hand it back to him.

"Alright, I guess that about does it. Come with me, I'll see you out."

We stand up and I follow him towards the exit, relieved to be done with this charade, and eager to track down Fuckface and his cohorts. He stops at the door and pulls out a box with some items inside.

"Here. These are yours. Was all you had on you when you was brought in."

Curious, I take the box and begin rummaging around in it. The first thing I find is my 'Merc Veteran - Wasteland Legend' outfit, thankful that they at least had the courtesy to leave my clothes. I pull out the outfit, but stop when I see what's lying underneath it.

What - the - fuck?

It's my Colt 1911 Mil-Spec, chambered in .45 ACP. Parkerized slide, night sights, walnut handles, grip safety, ten round mag. This weapon has seen me from the Capital Wasteland of Washington DC, across the Blue Ridge mountains and down the Ohio, past St. Louis and the dust storms of Oklahoma and Texas, through Caesar's lands and the Grand Canyon itself. It was my constant companion on my journey and it's protected me from tribal, raider, and highwaymen alike; each looking for a quick score with the one-armed dame, each dead with one shot.

"They left my Colt? What kind of dumbass leaves a damn Colt after killing someone? Glock, I could understand, but this is fucking Colt!"

"Ah yeah, the handgun. It's a fine looking piece if I do say so myself. We found it a bit away from where you were buried, figured it must have been yours. Can't say the townspeople were none too thrilled that I kept it for you."

They even left my spare magazines and the ammo inside them. Idiots!

I continue looking through the box; finding a small handful of bobby pins, which had always been useful for picking locks; several stimpaks; and a small bag of souvenirs I had collected from my various travels across the plains. They had taken all of my grenades and C4 though, I guess even Fuckface couldn't pass those up.

I take a moment to put on my 'Wasteland Legend' outfit, and holster my 1911 at my hip. It's a good start, but I'll need to get my explosives back, and some more magazines and ammo wouldn't hurt either.

"I also found this note in your jacket. I hope you don't mind but I gave it a look. I thought it might help me find a next of kin. But it was just something about a platinum chip."

I snatch it from his hand and quickly read it over. Package contents... delivery location... payment. It was all just anonymous bullshit and penalty threats from the company. Not much info there.

I've never heard of a 'platinum chip' before, much less why it would bring a band of goons down on me. I do know that the Mojave Express never releases courier delivery records outside of the agency. The fact that Fuckface knew what I had and where I would be shows that there must have been a leak somewhere in the chain, or perhaps a double cross by the recipient.

Either way I'm going to track down Fuckface and his Khans, get the chip back, then flush out the rat and destroy him.

"I also saved these two mementos for you, I don't know if you'd want them or not, but it was a bit of trouble fishin' them out of your head."

He hands me a pair of spent bullets. **My** bullets - slightly red now from the blood and brain matter they had been embedded into. I look them over for a moment, rubbing my thumb across their surfaces in quiet contemplation.

Wait a second...

"Ah, that explains it... it's nine-millimeter! No wonder I survived, only pussies use nine-millimeter."

Mitchell coughs and looks away with an embarrassed look on his face, I can't help but smirk.

"Yeah, I think I will keep these. Who knows, maybe I'll reshape them and give Fuckface a nasty surprise." I smile and pocket the two bullets, then prepare to head out.

"Wait, I got a couple more things for you here," he hands me a bag of caps, I guess about twenty in the bag. "I know it ain't much, but it will help you get started."

"And, if you're heading back out there I reckon you ought to have this."

He pulls out something that takes me way back...

"They call it a Pip-Boy. I grew up in one of them vaults they made before the war. We all got one. Ain't much use to me now, but you might want such a thing, after what you been through. I know what it's like having something taken from you."

I take it from him with a trembling hand, holding it for the first time since I had lost my arm. So long ago... It brings back a flood of memories with my friends, my father... memories of a lost childhood, of a happy and carefree life.

"I know you think you can't use it without your other hand, but it does have a neural interface option that should let you control it with your thoughts. I already set it all up for you there."

I quietly slip it onto my right wrist, knowing that it was one of the greatest survival items you could have. It fit snugly onto my arm. Firm, yet comfortable, like an old friend that had returned after a long absence. It's many features will help in so many different ways...

"Thank you, for everything. Such kindness is so hard to find... I had forgotten that it existed."

"Don't mention it, it's what I'm here for. You should talk to Sunny Smiles before you leave town. She can help you learn to fend for yourself in the desert. She'll likely be at the saloon."

Yeah, like I need survival tips after travelling three thousand miles of wasteland, and surviving two shots to the head.

"I reckon some of the other folks in the saloon might be able to help you out, too. And the metal fella, Victor, who pulled you out of your grave."

That wasn't bad advice. Someone in a local saloon was bound to have noticed a checkered suit and some Great Khans. Not exactly an everyday occurrence...

"Anyway, you ever get hurt out there, you come right back. I'll fix you up. But try not to get killed anymore."

I smile, thankful for his help, and for finally being free to begin my pursuit.

I open the door of the clinic, and step into the bright wasteland town of Goodsprings.


	3. Goodsprings

I squint my eyes for a moment as the bright light of the desert sun rushes into my vision - vaguely reminding me of the first time I left Vault 101. I blink a few times as the effect fades and look out over the town of Goodsprings. The clinic is on top of a hill overlooking the town, providing a good view in every direction.

It's about like every other settlement I've seen out here; buildings and roads cracked and worn with extreme age, broken down pre-war cars and pickup trucks lying abandoned in the street, tumbleweeds and dust clouds kicked up by the gusting wind. The town sits on a T-shaped intersection with houses and other buildings lining the roads, a windmill turning in the center, an old gas station to the left, a familiar looking water tower on a large hill above, and what looks like the general store and saloon down the road a piece.

The people are about the same as well; ranchers tending to their crops and bighorners, people walking to and from the store and saloon, all of them going about their daily lives and minding their own little corner of the world. Nothing out of the ordinary - unless you count the TV on wheels that's rolling down the street...

I walk up to it and look the thing over. It's obviously a robot - a securitron to be more precise. It has a cowboy on a TV screen as its face, two pincer-like arms, and a single wheel that it moves on. I had seen them when passing through Freeside before, but what was one doing here of all places?

"Howdy, partner! Might I say, you're looking as fit as a fiddle." It speaks with a southern drawl, a cheap imitation of a 'cowboy accent'.

"Victor, I take it? Doc Mitchell mentioned you. You're the one who dug me up from that grave right?"

"Yep, that's me! It's good to see you back up in the saddle, didn't think you were gonna pull through when I found you up there. That Doc Mitchell sure is a keeper."

"How did you happen to find me?"

"I was out for a stroll that night when I heard the commotion up there in the bone orchard. Saw what looked like a bunch of bad eggs so I laid low. Once they'd run off, I dug you up to see if you were still kicking. Turns out, you were, so I hauled you off to the Doc right quick."

That was pretty convenient...

"Do you know anything about the people that attacked me?"

"Can't say I'm familiar with the rascals. They weren't from around here. I'd ask around the saloon, see if they know anything."

"Why is a securitron this far from the Strip?" I ask, finding the whole thing suspicious.

"Well now, I reckon I've been in Goodsprings for about ten or fifteen years now. Has it really been so long? Odd though, I can't seem to remember nothin' before that. Anyway, Goodsprings is a peaceful place and as good a town to settle as any."

A securitron with amnesia, that just happens to be in Goodsprings, and just happens to find me in a shallow grave the very night I get shot? No, there's definitely something going on here. Maybe I'll ask around, I obviously can't get a straight answer from computer programming...

"Interesting. But I have to run, I'm kind of pressed for time."

"Alright, well happy trails partner. I hope your head gets to feelin' better."

I continue down the road towards the saloon, ignoring the stares my stump draws from the passers-by. My mind still lingers on the robot.

As far as I know securitrons only worked for Mr. House, the unseen strongman that rules over Vegas. Why would he send a securitron to help me? Was he the recipient of the package? If so, then why hire a simple courier to deliver something so important that somone would kill for it? What was it about the platinum chip that made it so valuable to him? Having that kind of high roller involved could definitely raise the stakes.

Still, it wasn't a real concern. Victor did pull me out of that grave after all. If he - or House - had wanted me dead it would have just left me there. The robot is more of a novelty than anything. I have bigger fish to fry.

Fuckface and the Khans are several days ahead of me by now. There's only two ways they could have gone from here: north, through Sloan; or south, through Primm. Based on that suit and accent I'm certain he was from the Strip. The I-15 north would be the quickest way there, but I can't be sure that's where they went. I don't even know their names. If I can just pick up that little piece of information I could take care of the rest on my own.

There are a couple more things I need to do before I leave town though. I need more caps. Twenty is a start, but not enough to stock up for a serious trip through the Mojave. I'll need to check on a quick job or two somewhere, then load up at the general store. Maybe I'll give that cemetery a quick glimpse as well, they may have left some clues up there.

I pass by the general store and walk through a small, swirling cloud of dust as I approach the entrance to the saloon. The building is old and run down with a large porch and several pre-war motorcycles parked next to it. The front of the building is lit up with decorative lights that have 'Prospector Saloon' and 'Open 24 hours' spelled out in bright letters; another sign is out near the road, swaying back and forth on chains in the wind. It looks like a place straight from an old western movie.

I step onto the porch and find an old, dark skinned man sitting in a chair next to the door. He has a long white beard and straw hat, and is dressed in typical western prospector clothing.

"Howdy, what can Easy Pete do for you?"

Referring to yourself in the third person? Instant fail.

"Uh, yeah... I was wondering if you knew anything about those guys that shot me in the cemetery."

"The one in the fancy suit seemed to be calling the shots. The rest of 'em were hired help. Mercs or somethin'."

"Do you have any idea where they went?"

"No, that's about all I know. Other folks in town might know more. Word of advice though, if you ever catch up with him, watch out. The man's got cold eyes like a snake. Can't be trusted."

"I'll try to remember that. What about that robot... Victor is his name?"

"The machine? Harmless, no matter what Trudy says. She thinks it's hiding something, but I think it's just a broken down old relic."

"What about you? What's your story?"

"Me? Well I was a prospector up until a few years ago. Now I just help out with the brahmin and bighorners. Had to settle down here to get away from the NCR."

The NCR - or New California Republic... one of the biggest players caught in the struggle for sin city. I've made a few deliveries west in their territory. Not much up on their history though, just that it was a coalition of settlements that had banded together a long time ago, something or other about a 'Tandi' and some guy from 'Vault 13'. Over the decades it had grown into a monolithic power on the west coast. A real nation with a real government, and - the much more relevant part - a real army.

"You don't like the NCR?" I ask.

"Don't get me wrong, the NCR's got a lot of decent folk in it. It's just that they make you join them, whether you like it or not. Towns like Goodsprings and Primm don't stay independent for long, not if you got something they want."

And there's the other side of the poker chip. NCR offer up promises of pre-war justice and democracy; but really just use it to expand their power, conquer other lands, and steal their resources. Just like the Enclave...

"What do you think about the Legion?" I ask, remembering the harsh trail I had taken to get through their territory.

"Well, the Legion is the only good reason to keep the NCR around. They're slavers, led by a guy named Caesar or Kaesar, not sure how you say it. A couple of years ago they tried to take over Hoover Dam, but the NCR beat them back. They didn't - or couldn't - finish the job though. The Legion built it's strength back and is getting ready for another round. My money is still on the NCR, but you never know..."

I've heard the stories of Hoover Dam since arriving in the Mojave. The NCR and the Legion had clashed for control of its hydro-electric power and the fresh water in Lake Mead. It happened back in 2277, the same year I left the vault and began my journey west. Caesar had shifted his focus from conquering the eastern tribes to overrunning the NCR at the Dam. It had made getting through their lands somewhat easier - if you can use the word 'easy' to describe sneaking and killing machete wielding men in skirts across three states... the only genuine opposition came from patrols, raiding parties, and getting caught in the occasional tribal conquest.

Everyone in the region knows Caesar will be coming for the Dam soon. The Legion has everyone so scared that they're willing to drop their pants for some NCR 'protection'. Personally, I don't see any real difference in the outcome. Both are nothing more than control freaks on power trips. I had witnessed the brutality of the Legion first hand, and while the NCR was more... subtle, in their methods, the end result would still be the same - warlords and power brokers flexing their muscles and raping the people.

"Wouldn't it be better if they both just went away?"

"Yeah, it most certainly would, but I don't know how you'd pull off such a thing. The NCR occupies almost everything between here and the pacific, Caesar holds everything east. You'll have to pry their cold dead fingers off the Dam and off each others throats. Whatever happens between them will just make things that much harder for us."

Yeah, that's about how it goes... hyper testosterone-charged armies take turns fucking each other, and shitting on everyone else doing it.

I'm no idealist by any means, that part of me had died long ago... but I do think people should be free to live their own lives without interference. Whether it be from cross-dressing 'Roman' slavers, or two-bit U.S. government knock offs. You should be able to make your own choices and make the most of what you have, without being controlled like someone else's property or told what to do. People just need to leave other people the fuck alone. That's the extent of what I stand for. Everything else is just sand in the breeze.

But enough of this bullshit. I have things to do, places to be, brains to blow out...

"Well, it was nice talking to you Easy Pete, but business calls."

"Take care, and be careful out there. We've been hearing stories about Legionaries on this side of the Colorado. Best keep a gun handy, you don't want to get caught by them." I nod, well aware of what happens to Legion captives...

I wave goodbye and step through the doors of the Prospector Saloon. It's a small, dimly lit, sparsely decorated place, with the familiar smells of cigarette smoke and whiskey lingering in the air. The room is full of tables and chairs, with a large pool table and a juke box in the corner. A woman and her dog are standing in front of the pool table, the later barking and growling as I enter. My hand goes to my holster.

"Cheyenne, stay! Don't worry she won't bite unless I tell her to."

I ease my hand away from my gun - shaking off the image of a Legion mongrel - and do a double take. It's like I'm staring into a mirror - at a red haired version of myself. She's wearing black leather armor and has a rifle slung over her back. I can tell she notices the resemblance as well.

"My name is Sunny Smiles. You must be that courier Victor dug up in the cemetery. I'm sorry about what happened, but it's great to see that you pulled through."

"Thanks, I'm Amata. Doc Mitchell mentioned you, said you could teach me to 'fend for myself in the desert'." I chuckle.

Big mistake.

"Yeah, I guess there's a thing or two I could show you. Sounds like you need all the help you can get after what they done to you. Meet me out back, behind the saloon."

"No wait I-"

She had already left.

Shit.

I don't have time to go through 'training' in this little hick town. Fuckface and his buddies are getting further away every second I stay here. They could be kicked back on the Strip by now for all I know.

Still...

The bartender isn't here, and none of these people look like they know anything. The ones that might are too shit-faced drunk to speak straight - and I do need caps and supplies before I head out.

I roll my eyes and follow her outside, deciding to humor the girl. Maybe she has paying work available, or at the very least she may know more about my quarry. I walk around the edges of the building and to the back of it. She's already there waiting with her dog, next to some Sunset Sarsaparilla bottles on a fence.

"Now, see those three sarsaparilla bottles on the fence there? See if you can hit them, it may be too difficult without your other ar-"

My 1911 shatters all three bottles before she can finish her sentence. Three quick shots in the blink of an eye - and a lot of broken glass.

She stands there in stunned silence, blinking her eyes, as I blow the smoke from the barrel and slide it back into my holster. I raise my eyebrow at her comical expression, a smug grin on my face.

"That was fun and all Sunny, but I don't really need training. What I do need - are caps. Do you have any work available?"

She stares for a moment, then shakes her head, still at a loss. "Uh, yeah... I was getting ready to drive the geckos away from our water supply. Why don't you come along? Fifty caps sound alright?"

I nod. Geckos were easy work. Fast little things though, with sharp teeth and a mean attitude. Nothing my Colt can't handle...

"Follow me then, it's just down to the southeast a short ways."

Sunny draws her .22LR Varmint Rifle and we take off to the south, moving at a brisk pace across town. The dog - Cheyenne - follows in her step, barking with energy and excitement. I stay back and let them lead the way, having no idea where we're going and generally not giving a shit. We pass by sand, cacti, rocks, houses, old broken power lines and through the settled areas of Goodsprings; eventually coming to the rocky outskirts of the town where the water supply is located. We stop behind a large rock formation, hearing lizard-like animal calls coming from the other side.

"Hear that up on the ridge behind me? We got some geckos to clear out. Bunch of little monsters is what they are. Seems like Doc Mitchell treats more gecko bites than anything else. Let's see if we can get a little closer. If we move quietly we can get the jump on them, might hit something vital that way."

She lowers herself into a crouched position and slowly moves along the left side of the rock. I draw my Colt and look between it and Sunny with a raised eyebrow, then shake my head and rush in from the opposite direction.

They see me instantly. Three of them, gathered around the wells of water that feed the town. They let out little shrieks of rage and bear their teeth, then come charging at me on their two legs. It's almost cute... in a freaky mutated wasteland sort of way.

My 1911 comes to life and blows the first one's head apart, covering the desert sand in a gooey red paste of lizard brains. The next one gets it in the chest, the .45 ACP round bringing it to an instant stop and making it hiss and screech in the throes of death. The last one lunges at me with its claws in rage, I hit it at point-blank and it goes rolling down the hill.

I walk over to the one I hit in the chest and see the thing gurgling in its own blood. It makes a final attempt to reach me, but I put it down with a .45 between the eyes, picturing Fuckface as I pull the trigger.

I stand there for a moment, breathing heavily, and taking in the scene of carnage around me. Sunny comes up seconds later, having seen me execute the last gecko with cold vengeance.

"Okaaay... yeah. Good work there. You, uh, seem to be getting the hang of it..." she says awkwardly, rubbing the back of her neck and backing away slightly.

I turn my gaze on her and see the nervous expression on her face. Who wouldn't be nervous, seeing a one-armed psychotic looking bitch standing over a pile of dead carcasses with a Colt in her hand?

"Are you alright? You seem a little... intense."

"Intense is how I roll." I whisper, looking at the lifeless gecko with its tongue hanging out of its mouth.

"Right... well," she nervously changes the subject, "there's still two more wells that need clearing up ahead. You with us?"

I look back up at her and nod slightly.

"Alright, it shouldn't take more than a couple minutes between the two of us. Follow me."

We travel across more desert terrain, up hills and past jagged rocks, eventually coming into an open clearing where the next well is located. Two more geckos come running out at us, their little purple bodies waddling on webbed feet.

Sunny takes aim with her rifle and hits the lead gecko with a couple of .22LR rounds to the chest and head, putting it out of commission. Cheyenne growls and jumps into the fray with the other one, biting, clawing and rolling around in the sand.

"Cheyenne!"

I size up the situation as the two animals wrestle and bite each other. Cheyenne has hold of one of the gecko's arms with its teeth, while the gecko is biting on its back. It would be a difficult shot to make with the two animals fighting in such close proximity, but I've made harder. I take careful aim with my Colt as the gecko pins the dog and goes for the killing bite, then I squeeze the trigger. The bullet breaks through the gecko's skull - missing the dog by inches - and kills it instantly.

Sunny runs over to check on Cheyenne, while I go over to the well to fill up my canteen. It's not that I don't give a shit about the dog - I don't, actually - I just know I'm going to need water to survive on the road once I leave Goodsprings. I dip the canteen in the water and fill it up, then bring it to my parched lips. The water soothes me to the core, providing relief from the heat, and wetting my dehydrated mouth. It's the first drink I've had in days - since that night in the cemetery. The cool sensation rushes through my body and reminds me that I'm alive - for better or worse.

The water in this place is something that I still can't get my mind around. It's so abundant and plentiful here, such a simple and second natured thing to these people; yet there are so many more that don't have it. The people here have no clue or comprehension of the hardships in the rest of the wasteland. The Mojave is one of the only places I've found where water _isn't_ filthy and irradiated. Something I attribute to the lack of bombs here during the Great War.

I can't help but think of Project Purity as I sit here, drinking under the glaring Nevada sun. The Jefferson Memorial... the place where I had lost the love of my life for the dream of giving clean water to others. Something so taken for granted here.

_"Don't ever leave me. You're all I have left now."_

_"I won't. I love you. There's nowhere you can go that I won't follow."_

He had convinced me to give life a second chance in the vault that day, and yet he was the one who chose death in the end. He had died a hero's death... and had left me completely - and utterly - alone. Didn't he realize the pain that would cause me? Did he care? Why did he do it? Was it for his father? For the dream the project had represented? Did he think of me at all? The lack of answers is one of the most painful parts.

I had travelled three thousand miles to get away from that pain, drinking clean water brings it back...

"Amata, did you hear me?" I look up to see Sunny standing there, her voice snapping me back to the present. I rub the new scars on my forehead, trying to push the pain to the back of my mind.

"I just wanted to thank you for what you did, you saved Cheyenne's life."

I look down and see the dog standing there by her side. It has a few bloody bite marks on its back and neck, but seems to be fine.

I look back at Sunny and sigh. "It's no problem. Now, can we please get this over with?"

Suddenly, we hear the sound of screaming coming from up ahead. Screams of fear, pain and distress, obviously coming from someone in trouble.

We take off at a run in that direction, passing between the typical wasteland-desert rock formations and sandy hills. The screams grow louder as we get closer to the source of the commotion, soon joined by the sounds of lizards shrieking and claws tearing through flesh. After several moments we come upon the scene.

Six geckos are attacking - and clearly, about to kill - a woman who was apparently trying to get water from the nearby well. She's holding a bloody cleaver, which I assume she's using to fight the geckos with. She's still on her feet and trying to back away from their relentless attack.

Sunny takes the first shot with her .22LR rifle, hitting and killing one of the attacking geckos with a clean shot through the back of its head. I take aim with my 1911 and shoot the next one, dropping it with a center mass shot to the chest; followed with a shot in the throat of the one next to it, choking it in its own blood. Then, I notice that my slide has locked back.

I'm out, and there are still three more geckos left.

Sunny continues firing her rifle, but the .22LR rounds don't hit in the right places to do enough damage. Cheyenne charges into the chaos as the woman fights for her life.

Without hesitation I hit the mag release button on the gun, and - holding the grip with my thumb, index and middle fingers - I reach down to my belt and get my next magazine with my ring and pinky fingers, then I align the magazine with the well, slam it down against my thigh to lock it in place, and release the slide-lock to chamber the round. A one-handed reloading process I had mastered.

I bring the Colt back to bear as a gecko leaps towards the woman's throat. With a quick squeeze of the trigger it's head explodes off its shoulders like a smashed mutfruit. The last two are quickly dispatched with chest shots that tear through their hearts and kill them before they hit the ground.

Sunny looks at me in stunned disbelief, while the woman comes running up to me, bruised and bloodied, but very much alive.

"Oh, thank you! If you hadn't come when you did I'd be a goner for sure. You saved me!"

Saved you from your own stupidity perhaps. What kind of idiot comes up here alone without a gun? Who goes anywhere without a gun? Much less this far into unsettled wasteland territory. Maybe those geckos were trying to do us all a favor...

Still... I can't help but feel a little warm inside. It's a nice feeling - saving someone else's life, no matter how shitty my own is. It's the kind of thing _he_ would have done...

"Here, take the water I gathered. It's the least I can give you."

"Keep your water," I say with a sigh, "just be more careful next time - and don't enter gecko infested areas with nothing but a damn butcher knife on your hip."

"I'll remember that," she stutters. "Thanks again. I owe you one stranger."

With that, she turns and runs away, limping slightly from the bloody wounds on her legs. After she leaves, Sunny comes up to me.

"Where did you learn to shoot like _that_?"

I look back down at my Colt, remembering my trips across the Blue Ridge, Dust Bowl, and the Rio Grande.

"Around." I answer simply.

"Alright... well, we're done here. Nice job clearing out all the geckos. Here's your well-earned reward." She hands me a small bag of caps. "Fifty as promised... plus ten more for helping Cheyenne."

I take the bag from her and check its weight, then put it in my pocket with the one Doc Mitchell gave me. Eighty caps now. A really good start, but the food rations and ammo would drain most of it. I still needed a bit more.

"Thanks. Are there anymore paying jobs available?"

"Not that I know of in Goodsprings, but there is the old school building across town if you're up for some scavenging. Most of what's there is junk, but there's a safe in it that even Easy Pete couldn't crack with dynamite."

An 'unbreakable' safe? Now you're speaking my language...

"Where is this schoolhouse located?"

"It's back in town, just down the road from Doc Mitchell's clinic actually. Take a right as you're coming out, it's the big red building down the street. Can't miss it."

I nod, committing that to memory, before remembering my other reason for being out here.

"I meant to ask if you knew anything about the men who jumped me the other day? Who they are, where they were going?"

"Hmm, well now that you mention it, I did see them going into the saloon that night. Must have been shortly after what they done to you. I've never seen any of them before, but I can tell you that that one in the checkered suit had a high-dollar accent and the group with him were some kind of hired help. You should talk to Trudy, the bartender. If anyone in Goodsprings knows where those guys would be, it's her."

"I will," I nod. "And thank you for the caps Sunny. I appreciate the help."

"No problem. Always happy to help someone down on their luck."

I smile in gratitude, then turn and head back towards town, to the old schoolhouse.


	4. Schoolhouse Rock

I re-enter Goodsprings through the same dirt path we had taken out of it; I pass by homes and ranches until I reach the road that leads to the old schoolhouse building. The school itself is located on the southwestern edge of town, between Goodsprings and the rocky chain of hills that overlook the settlement. I head towards it, intent on cleaning the place out.

I hope I'm not just wasting my time here. Sunny had said there was mostly just junk inside, but the thought of a locked safe is just too tempting an idea to pass up. Caps, bullets, grenades, who knows what could be inside? The fact that no one had cracked it after so long - in a populated place such as this - speaks volumes about the toughness of the safe, especially if it had withstood dynamite.

Lockpicking is my specialty though, it always has been. From my late-night childhood adventures in the vault; to the locked doors, safes and pre-war banks scattered across the wastes of America; my ability to crack locks had served me well and kept me supplied on my journey. Losing an arm hadn't slowed my lock breaking, just made it more... interesting.

I look over the schoolhouse as it comes into view. It's a large, one story building; surrounded with white picket and collapsed chain-link fencing. The outside is coated with two century old chipped and faded red paint, broken or boarded glass windows, and patches of missing roof shingles on top. A small run down metal shack stands on a dirt path across from the building, the old world flag hanging proudly outside and... Victor, of all things, standing at the entrance, completely still and emotionless, his creepy cowboy face not giving anything away.

I eye the robot wearily as I pass by, unable to shake the feeling that it's watching me...

Ignoring it, I make my way to the entrance of the schoolhouse, stepping around the fencing until I reach the doors. I draw my Colt back from its holster, then nudge the door open with my shoulder and step inside.

The room is old and dusty, mostly dark, save for rays of light provided by the sun shining between the boarded up windows and through the holes in the ceiling. It's creaky wooden floor is littered with garbage and debris; with overturned desks, chairs and several rows of lockers stacked against the walls. A long counter is on the left side of the room, and I can see the safe tucked into a small corner beside it.

I start to make my way towards the safe but stop suddenly, hearing a soft rustling noise. I raise my Colt in a guarded stance and glance around the room, searching for the source of the sound. I hear it again, this time accompanied by the sounds of flapping and scratching against the floor. Suddenly there's a rush and some kind of green... things, come buzzing out at me.

I unload my 1911 on the first one wasting no time. The .45 ACP round obliterates the insect in a spray of clear, yellowy bug juice. I hit the one behind it in it's creepy alien-shaped head, blowing it apart and leaving it headless. The next one lunges with flapping wings and strikes out with scythe-like claws. I jump back with a shriek and unload three rounds on it at point-blank, reducing it to a green puddle of insect mush. Overkill, I know, but these things creep me the fuck out!

There's still two more left. I take aim and shoot one in the chest, then follow it with a headshot that blows it apart. Then the slide locks back and my gun clicks.

Fuck, I'm empty again, and there's still another one! The thing buzzes and strikes out with its claws, not giving me a chance to reload. I side step the attack and jump on top of it, stomping it down and crushing it beneath my weight. I stomp several more times, crunching it up and making sure it's dead.

I step off the crushed mantis and look down in disgust at the bug juice on my heel. I drag my boots across the floor to wipe it off, then slap another mag in my 1911 and head over to the safe.

I can already see how tough it is. It's about two and a half feet tall, made of black reinforced steel, with a combo key and number locking mechanism. The outside looks worn and damaged, chip marks are visible from obvious attempts at drilling, while scorch marks on the front show failed attempts at explosive entry. I crouch down and inspect the keyhole, only to find it obstructed with broken off screwdriver and drill bits, like someone had just tried to ram them in there and pop the lock out. Amateurs!

I reach into my pocket and grab a few bobby pins, then stick them in the keyhole and start fishing around. The basic idea is simple enough - jimmy the pins out of the cylinder and then turn it - but these assholes had blocked it up with broken debris inside, preventing me from raising the tumblers.

Shit.

It wasn't a lost cause though. There are work arounds, and easier - less time consuming - ways to crack locks. While the reinforced steel was strong enough to withstand dynamite; a smaller, more focused charge could take out the lock and open the safe.

Ah, lockpicking and explosives - two of my favorite subjects... together.

I take several of my .45 ACP rounds and slowly wiggle the bullets out of their casings, then I carefully pour the gunpowder and pack it in the keyhole. Once it's in there, I light a match and set it off. The small powder charge goes off in a puff of smoke, blowing out the locking mechanism and opening the safe.

I grin at my accomplishment and begin raiding the contents. Inside are some worthless pre-war dollars, an old RobCo stealth boy device, a frontier trail knife, a pair of binoculars, and a 9mm Beretta pistol. It's the fucking jackpot! I can flip this gun for at least 200 caps; while the stealth boy, knife and binos would serve me very well on the road.

With the safe cracked, I begin combing over the rest of the schoolhouse - searching through lockers, desks, boxes, and crates. All in all, I find 20 more caps, another handful of bobby pins, some wonderglue, duct tape, and a couple of boxes of abraxo cleaner. Items I can use to clean, repair and maintain my Colt. I pack up my stuff and turn to leave the building, giving it a final look over on the way out, before stepping back into the desert sun.

That went well! I should now have enough caps to get to my next destination and beyond, provided I can get the right price for this handgun here. It's a fine looking pre-war gun, but as I told the Doc - it's nine-millimeter. I'd rather kill what I shoot.

I think I'll head over to the general store and stock up, then return to the saloon and find this Trudy character. After all, none of this means shit if I don't know where Fuckface actually is, or where I'm actually going.

I set out towards the store with my next stop in mind. As I reach the road I notice that Victor is still standing by the shack, still watching me with that blank cowboy expression. I have half a mind to march over there and put a hole through that TV screen face... but I resist the urge. I'd rather blow out brains than metal circuits...

I continue down the road, passing by Doc Mitchell's clinic, before reaching the Goodsprings general store. It's another old western style building, like the saloon; it's made of adobe brick, with a wood plank porch out front and crates scattered about. I notice a Mojave Express dropbox with some trepidation as I enter.

The inside of the store is even more sparse. Bookshelves, cabinets and racks are stacked with various junk items; broken pre-war grocery freezers are set up with maize, mutfruit, and other assorted vegetables in them; and broken display cases are at the counter. A middle-aged man with a brown beard is standing behind the register, the owner of the store I presume.

"You must be the one Doc Mitchell was patching up. That courier? The way I heard it, I didn't think you'd be walking out of that office. My name is Chet, and I run this here general store. I have plenty of supplies for sale. Food, water, ammo, you name it. I even have weapon mods and special ammo for sale, well worth the caps if you ask me."

Weapon mods and ammo? I already like this place.

"I'm Amata. I'm just passing through town and looking to load up on supplies before I head back out."

"You came to the right place then. What you lookin' for?"

"First, I have a gun here that I'm looking to trade," I pull out the Beretta I had found and hand it to him. "Interested?"

"A Beretta nine-millimeter! Where'd you find it?"

"It was in that safe over in the schoolhouse."

"You cracked that thing? Wow, I'm impressed. I didn't think anyone would ever get it open. Why do you want to sell it though? It's a good looking gun."

I pull my .45 slightly out of its holster so he can get a glimpse, then slide it back in.

"Mary mother of Jesus! Is that a Colt forty-five?"

I nod, no more needing to be said.

"You lucky bastard, I'll give you a thousand caps for it right now!"

"Not for sale," I respond immediately. "Just the Beretta."

He lets out a disappointed sigh. Who wouldn't? My Colt is above any price tag. I appreciate someone who recognizes it's value though.

"Fine. I definitely want it, how much you asking?"

"Five."

"I was thinking two. That thing was fazed out by the N99, even back in the pre-war days."

"That just makes it more rare and valuable. I'll do four though."

"Three?"

"Four," I shake my head. "Take it or leave it."

I stare at him with a firm, unflinching gaze; making him squirm as he considers it. He thinks it over for a moment, then nods.

"Four hundred it is then."

I smile as he counts out a shitload of caps and takes possession of the gun. I got double what I expected for the thing! Now I can buy everything I need and then some. He hands me the bag of caps and I put them in my pocket, now giving me a total of 500. Fucking jackpot indeed...

With caps in hand, I begin my wasteland-survival shopping spree. First, I pick out a week's worth of instamash, pork n' beans, maize and agave fruit.

"Alright, that'll be sixty caps for the food. I suppose you'll be wanting to look at ammo now right?"

I nod. "Do you have any forty-five?"

He nods. "Got a new shipment in last week, from some place in Utah. New Canaan or something they called it. Anyway, I have regular FMJ rounds, armor-piercing and hollow points. Fifty caps for a hundred round box, the AP and hollow points will run you a bit more."

"That's a little steep isn't it?"

"I also have boxes of surplus ammo available. They're not great, but you get what you pay for."

Ah yes, cheap surplus shit. It misfeeds, misfires, jams, and makes your gun dirty as shit; but you learn to make due with it in places where ammo is hard to find. Still, my Colt is my baby, I keep her well fed and only use that stuff as a last resort.

"Fine," I sigh. "I'll take a box of each type. Do you have any extra magazines for a 1911?"

"Yeah I do. Eight rounders, ten rounders, and I have these forty round drums available as well."

Did he just say-

"I don't get many customers that have 1911's and they've been sitting here for a while. I'll let the whole set go for fifty caps."

Drum?

On a handgun?

For a 1911?

40 rounds?

Forty - round - drum?

He pulls out a box behind the counter, and there they are in all their glory. Two of them. Circular shaped drums that come out far beyond the pistol grip. There's also three eight round mags and two ten rounders. I'm all over it like flies on a carcass in the desert. I pick them up in awe and look them over, then check their fit in my Colt. After verifying, I buy them without a moment's hesitation, leaving me with 220 caps left. Plenty for...

"Do you have any explosives? C4? Grenades?"

"Have a bit of both actually. Each will run you fifty a piece, the C4 detonator is twenty on its own. You won't find a better deal in the Mojave."

Yeah, that's not bad. The grenades are useful for clearing large clusters of attacking enemies, while the C4 is good for sneaking and obliterating hostile encampments without them knowing I'm there.

"I'll take a detonator, two blocks of C4, and a grenade."

I take the explosives and pay the man, leaving me with just 50 caps... and a weeks worth of supplies on the counter.

"Do you have some kind of pack I can haul all this shit around in?"

"Yeah," he says, pulling a worn brown backpack out from behind the counter. "Ten caps."

I take the pack and inspect it, then nod at the price, satisfied with its condition. I pay for the pack, then stuff it with the food and extra ammo I had bought. I put the mags and the drums - I still can't believe I'm saying that - in my pockets.

"I'm also looking for information, on those guys that attacked me. Do you know anything about them?

"Yeah, the leader was a New Vegas type - typical city boy. He had a bunch of Great Khans with him, probably hired guns. The Great Khans usually stay way up northwest, on account of being enemies with the NCR."

I don't know that much about the Great Khans really. I haven't had any previous run-ins with them, and my courier jobs don't usually take me near their territory. Most of what I know is that they are a small band of reclusive raiders that operate around their base at Red Rock Canyon.

Now that I think of it though, I do remember hearing about their conflict with the NCR. Something about some place up north called 'Bitter Springs'. Apparently the NCR had done a real number on them up there, and drove them all into that canyon they're in now. The Khans had sworn revenge for what had happened and were looking to hitch their wagon with anyone that was against the NCR.

"Do you know anything else about the Great Khans?"

"They're tough sons of bitches, mean, but not crazy. They'll leave you alone unless you've got something they want. They deal in illegal chems. There's a good chance that most chems you come across were made by Great Khans."

Ah great, drug dealers too. No wonder the Fiends were so fucked up...

Still, it doesn't make much sense for a group of isolated druggies to hit me so far from Red Rock Canyon. It doesn't really fit their MO. The Khans were just the goons though - the helping hands, Fuckface is obviously the caps behind the operation. Once I stick a .45 in his skull I'll march into Red Rock Canyon and burn the place to the ground, make them wish they were dealing with the NCR.

"What about the one in the checkered suit?"

"A city-boy, like I told you. Don't know who he is, but if he can hire the Great Khans for a job then he must be in some money. A person like that doesn't stay away from the Strip for long."

Freeside is the closest I've been to the Strip, and while I'm somewhat familiar with the players there, I'll need to know more if I'm going to get to the bottom of this.

"Have you ever been to New Vegas?"

"Twice. Both times, I drank a lot of liquor and lost all my caps. In that order, now that I think of it. If you ever get to New Vegas be sure to visit Gomorrah. It's the best casino in the city. Word of advice though - behave. Between the NCR military police and Mr. House's securitrons, you don't want to be causing trouble on the Strip."

I scowl at that. I'll do what I damn well please, wherever the fuck I please to do it. If I catch up with Fuckface there I won't hesitate to cap him or anyone else that gets in my way, House and the NCR be damned.

"I'd like to know more about Mr. House." I ask, thinking of Victor.

"I'm afraid I don't know much myself. Mr. House has his own casino on the Strip - the Lucky 38, but it's closed up and nobody goes in or out except his robots. The other casinos follow his rules, so I guess that makes him the leader of New Vegas. As far as I know, nobody's ever laid eyes on the guy."

Everyone around here knows about Mr. House. As I understand it, he had been holed up in that tower of his for God knows how long, only to come bursting out with his securitrons and enough muscle to corral the raiding tribes and take over the Strip. All of this happened before I even left the vault, let alone made it through the Capital Wasteland or across the plains. House had somehow maintained his hold when the NCR came; and had even swindled them into protecting him from Caesar and sending tourists to shake down in his casinos. It was a nice little scam... but it wouldn't last forever. Eventually, the NCR or Caesar would win out at the Dam and take the rest of the Mojave with it.

"I think that robot that pulled you out of the dirt belongs to Mr. House. If Mr. House is looking after you, that's gotta be a good thing, right?"

Yeah, I'll get my answers from House soon enough. If he tries to keep me out, I'll blow the doors open. If he tries to stick me in the back, I'll stick a .45 in his face. If he was connected to the attack... I'll bring that tower down on his head, burn his precious Strip, and make him love it.

"Was there anything else you needed?"

I think for a moment, then shake my head, having everything I came here for. "Thanks for the information."

"Pleasure doing business with you - and I wish you luck tracking down those guys. Give them a kick in the balls for me."

I nod my head with a grin, then shoulder my pack and leave the store.


	5. No Grave Can Hold Me Down

The dusty wasteland breeze has picked up a bit, blowing bits of sand and dirt in my face as I leave the store. I now have a full canteen, a week's worth of food, nearly 330 rounds of .45 ammo - with ten magazines and two _drums_ for it, a set of binoculars, a trail knife, a stealth boy device, two blocks of C4 and a hand grenade. I have all I need to set out now... except for my actual destination.

I suppose I should head over to the saloon now. Hopefully this 'Trudy' will actually be there, and know where my attackers went. The sooner I find out where they are, the sooner I can blow this place and get started. I have a lot of road left ahead of me and a lot of ground to make up.

I adjust the strap on my pack, then step off the porch of the general store, and head over to the Goodsprings saloon. I wipe the irritating dust out of my face as I walk, my eyes absently following a tumbleweed as it blows down the dusty road ahead of me. It rolls past the edge of the saloon and over to the base of the hill behind it. I look up, seeing an all too familiar looking water tower.

The cemetery... the place where I was tied up, shot in the head and left in a shallow grave by a group of bottom-feeding maggots. The tower sits atop the hill, holding silent vigil over the graves below; blackbirds circle overhead, adding to the desolate and foreboding feel of the area. Yet, I feel something... drawing me there; some desire, or need, to see it with my own eyes; to see the place where I had finally received the bullet I had wanted for so long...

I look down at my Pip-Boy and see that it's now one o'clock in the afternoon. I hope to leave Goodsprings by two if Trudy has the info I need. That gives me plenty of time to check out the cemetery, to see where it all went down.

I slide on a pair of biker goggles to keep the blowing sand from stinging my eyes, then I head over to the hill and begin trudging up it, towards the cemetery. The hill is steep and rocky, covered with brush and cacti. I nearly lose my footing as I climb it, my mind distracted by the call of the grave and the ghosts of my past. I reach the top and have a look around, the sight of the graveyard instantly bringing me back to that night...

There are about thirty graves in the cemetery, spread apart in small dirt plots beneath the water tower. The site is surrounded with old, makeshift fencing; separating the cemetery from the wilderness beyond. The distant skyline of New Vegas is visible in the background, the Lucky 38 standing prominently in the distance.

The arid earth cracks beneath my feet as I step back into the graveyard. I, but a lonely ghost searching for my own grave. I don't know what I hope to find up here. Clues? Information? Or perhaps something deeper.

It is a place of the dead, an eternal vigil to the cycle of life and it's inevitable passing. Some graves had been here for centuries, others for weeks or months; none of their occupants able to escape death's cold embrace... yet, there was a grave that stood open, as a standing testament to one who had. A unique twist that had brought life from this place of death; for death would not have me, even when it was desired; and the end was only the beginning. And it was from that grave, in this place of death, that something had been sparked - a purpose. No matter how shallow or violent. The idea of retribution brought reason to press on, reason for a broken soul to begin a journey for something that three thousand miles of searching had not yet found - meaning.

_"Truth is, the game was rigged from the start."_

I shake the image from my mind, absently rubbing the scar on my forehead.

The grave... the place where I had been buried just three days ago.

A six foot by three rectangular hole, dug by the old water tower; with mounds of dirt, cigarette buds, and beer cans scattered around it.

Such an inauspicious place, so dreary a setting. Barren, unremarkable, lifeless. What could be a more fitting end to such a shitty life? Tied up and shot in the head by bootlicking sycophants, left in an unmarked grave in this backwoods place; unknown, unnoticed and unmissed; with no one giving a shit. It was almost story book.

Except for the part where I didn't fucking die.

I look down at a certain spot on the ground, next to the grave. A red spot in the dirt, a blood stain...

The exact place where I had been tied up and had my brains blown out.

I find myself in another time, at another place.

* * *

><p><em><em><em><em>From the hangar marketplace, through the steel bulkhead doors, and down the winding stairway I move; making my way through the cramped halls and corridors of Rivet City. <em>____I shove__ past people in my way; ignoring their startled cries, their glares, and - especially - their looks of pity. I don't even notice them as I head through the ancient pre-war ship, my mind fixated on a goal, on a specific destination._

_For the past two months I had been confined on this rusted boat; __put through agonizing weeks of surgery and rehab in Dr. Preston's clinic. Major procedures - performed with third world techniques and equipment - to mend the third-degree burns on my chest, the internal burn damage on my heart and lungs, __and my severed arm..._

_Waking up without an arm was unimaginable, horrifying, a nightmare I couldn't wake up from. The pain in my chest had been excruciating when I first regained consciousness, but I had writhed and screamed for hours upon seeing the stump, animalistic howls that reverberated through the halls of the ship. They had sedated me for days after that, 'for my safety' they had told me, but I think they were just afraid._

_Then began the 'recovery process'. The slow healing, the painful rehab, the chems. A drug-induced storm of emotions swept through my mind for weeks; shock, denial, grief, anger, rage, depression__; all of it mingled with the continued pain, torturous pain, in my chest and arm. Some nights I would cry myself to sleep, others I would trash the clinic and scream into the night. __Then, __I had contemplated suicide; chem overdose, slitting my wrist, gunshot, you name it. It was so easy... so tempting. The only thing that had stopped me was my father. He was still down there, still in the vault, and he needed me. I had to go back._

_I was finally thrown out of the clinic by Dr. Preston, but that doesn't matter, only a single thing matters now - a single purpose._

_**He** was here._

_Butch DeLoria. The destroyer of Vault 101._

_I had heard some of the locals talking about the new guy at the Muddy Rudder as I was about to leave town. W_ho else would have a Vault 101 jumpsuit worn under a leather jacket with a snake on the back? I began to make my way to the bar without a second thought.__

__The Muddy Rudder is a small little shithole in the bowels of the ship. A two-level room, with a flight of stairs connecting the entrance and the pool tables above to the bar area below. The smells of watered down booze, piss and cigarette smoke hang in the air.__

__I see him immediately; sitting at the bar, wearing that stupid fucking 'tunnel snakes' jacket and drinking beer. __

__I walk down there to him and sit on a bar-stool to his left, concealing my stump from his view on my other side.__

__"Amata? I'll be damned, if it ain't our very own queen from the vault! How you doin'?" __

_I don't acknowledge him, I just stare blankly ahead._

__"Uh, yeah," he rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. "Hey, let me buy you a round for old times sake! Hey Belle, get me two more over here!"__

__The bartender comes over with a beer. I shake my head, and she pours a shot of whiskey instead.__

_"So what brings you to Rivet City?" he asks me._

_I swirl the whiskey around in the glass, not answering. He clears his throat and tries to fill the silence by talking about himself._

"_I've struck it pretty good since ditching the vault. Belle hired me as a part time bouncer here in the Muddy Rudder. I'm looking to start my own haircut business though, and once I have enough caps I'll move up to the big time! I'll start my own gang! If you play your cards right I might even let you join. What do you say?"_

_I slowly turn my head and look at him with a blank expression_. He's just like I remember him; cl____assic 'greaser' haircut, 'tough guy' attitude, entirely self-centered... no remorse for what he had done to our home and our people.__

__I turn back to the glass and down the whiskey with one shot, then ___I stand suddenly - finally giving him a full view of my severed arm._

_"Woah... Amata, what happened to your arm?" he asks, looking at me with a gaze of sympathy._

_I don't respond. I simply stare, __looking over his face. _

_"Amata?"_

_I raise my gun and fire, blowing his brains on the bar of the Muddy Rudder._

* * *

><p>I still remember the expression on his face as I pulled the gun, the flash of terror in that split second before I squeezed the trigger. I had done it without hesitation, without remorse or guilt. It was the first time I had ever killed a person, and I didn't even bat an eye.<p>

I hadn't thought of him in years - since I left the Capital Wasteland.

He had destroyed our home, led our people to their deaths, driven my father to suicide.

Am I really any better?

I killed him in cold blood. Executed him.

I spilled his brains in the bar that day... Fuckface had spilled mine.

Isn't it funny how the past has a way of catching up with you?

_"Truth is, the game was rigged from the start."_

I walk over to the edge of the hill and look over the Vegas skyline once again, clenching my fist until my knuckles turn white.

No, the game had just begun.

"I'm coming for you Fuckface."


	6. Goodsprings Vs Powder Gangers

The Prospector Saloon is a little more crowded than it was earlier. The smells of tobacco and booze are still prominent as usual, the patrons are sitting at their tables with their drinks... but there is a very tense air hanging over the room that I notice immediately upon entering. People are exchanging nervous glances with each other, whispering in hushed voices, ignoring their drinks, and listening to the raised voices in the next room.

I cautiously step inside, keeping my hand near my holster as I move towards the bar area. Hardly anyone pays me any mind as I pass by, their attention focused on the argument.

"I'm through being nice!" I hear a loud smack on the bar, rattling the glasses on the counter.

I step around the corner and survey the situation. A dark skinned man in a blue jacket is at the bar, arguing with a middle aged woman who's standing behind it. This woman must be Trudy - the saloon's bartender; the man, I don't recognize - but I _do_ know what the 'NCRCF' on the back of his jacket means. My muscles tense and I grip the handle of my handgun, still keeping it in its holster for now.

"I've already told you, I don't know where he is!"

The man reaches over the bar and grabs Trudy by the neck of her shirt, pulling her towards his face. Sunny Smiles and a few of the other patrons move to intervene, but she waves them off, looking at the man with a glare that could freeze ice. I slowly move closer to them, unnoticed from behind.

"I'm going to say this in a way that you can understand," he says slowly, his voice dripping with malice. "My men are waiting on the edge of town as we speak. We're giving you ten minutes to turn over Ringo. Ten minutes. If you don't give him up, then me and my friends are going to burn this town to the fucking ground! _Got it_?"

"We'll keep that in mind," Trudy calmly responds. "Now if you're not going to buy something, get out!"

He grips her shirt tighter in his hands, breathing in psychotic rage. The tension around the bar could be cut with a knife - the situation threatening to explode. I shuffle closer, stepping quietly to not draw attention to myself. I slide my 1911 out of the holster.

"Ten. Minutes."

He looks at her for a few more seconds, then pushes her violently against the back of the bar and turns to leave the saloon... only to find me blocking his path.

"Get out of my fucking way you one armed freak!"

I tilt my head to the side questioningly, then raise my 1911 and shoot him in the kneecap. He collapses to the ground in a heap, holding his knee and writhing in agony.

"AHHHHH, YOU BITCH!"

I smile, and shoot his other kneecap.

"**AHHHHHHHH!**"

I stand over him, looking down with utter disgust. He is rolling on the floor, screaming in pain and rage. The rest of the bar watches in stunned silence.

"This is what happens when you threaten innocent people!"

He stares back at me with shear hatred, and I squeeze the trigger again - putting a .45 right between his eyes that instantly silences his screams.

I stand there for a moment, breathing hard and staring down at the lifeless body. Trudy, Sunny and the rest of the patrons are gaping with absolute shock; some with expressions of disbelief and others with horror. I pay it little heed and continue staring at the corpse, taking in his features, soaking in every detail. His eyes remain open, his face is frozen with an expression of rage, while blood begins to pool on the floor beneath him. I slide my gun back into my holster after a moment, dismissing it with a shrug of my shoulders. I move over to the bar and down a quick shot of whiskey that's sitting on the counter.

Trudy is the first to recover. "Wh.. what have you done?"

"Nothing I haven't done before." I reply nonchalantly.

Everyone is staring at me like I have a second head. Oh well... at least it's not because I don't have a second arm - for once!

"You didn't have to do that. He was leaving!"

"That's how we deal with scum where I come from. How do you do it?" I reply with a smile.

"Look, I don't give a shit about Cobb, I really don't, but you just brought a heap of trouble down on this town. Now they'll all come."

"You heard him, _'ten minutes'_. His 'friends' were going to attack the town anyway!"

She rubs her temple and sighs. "Probably so, but you've just guaranteed it. Joe Cobb is... was... the leader of these Powder Gangers."

I stare at her blankly, the name not meaning anything to me.

"You haven't heard of the Powder Gangers?"

"Should I have?"

Sunny looks back and forth between us, then puts a hand on Trudy's shoulder. "Trudy, this is Amata. She's that courier that was attacked by those men that came through here the other day."

A look of recognition suddenly comes across her face. "Oh, you're the one Doc Mitchell was working on! Well, it's great to see that you've recovered. I heard what happened to you in that graveyard... hell of a thing. I wasn't expecting you to pull through when they dragged you in that night. Sunny told me you were awake though. I was hoping to meet with you actually, but I wasn't expecting it to be under these circumstances..."

I smile, thinking of some of my past exploits. "I get that a lot actually."

She looks at me strangely for a moment, then shifts back to business. "You've been out of it for a couple of days so let me clue you in. About four or five days ago a group of cons revolted and broke out of the NCR Correctional Facility." I look at her in surprise, having heard nothing about this when taking the job in Primm. "These cons were being used to work on a new railroad the NCR has been trying to build through the Mojave. The real problem though - is they were trusted with dynamite, lots of dynamite. They used it to escape."

My eyes widen with disbelief. What kind of fools would give explosives to fucking convicts? Did anyone stop and think 'hey, maybe it might not be such a good idea to give _blasting dynamite _to the_ prisoners'_? These were the people that wanted to run the Mojave?

"However, instead of splitting up they decided to organize and gather as many supplies as possible. They've been raiding settlements and caravans over the last couple of days. This is what Goodsprings is now dealing with."

Typical raider trash in a nutshell. I had dealt with many of their kind before, and certainly could now. Though _clearly _it would be without the NCR's help, the ones who actually _armed_ and _unleashed_ the dynamite throwing vermin in the _first place_. That's just how shit works.

"Who is Ringo?" I ask, wondering who this guy was and what he did to get these scum on his back.

"He's a trader that came into town yesterday. Said he was a survivor of an attack, bad men were after him, needed a place to hide. We figured he was just in shock, so we gave him a place to lie low. We didn't expect anyone to actually come for him."

I ponder this for a moment. "Where is Ringo now?"

"He's holed up in the abandoned gas station up the hill."

I think over the situation quickly. Dead convict leader - check, goons coming to destroy the town in less than ten minutes - check, only people around who might know where Fuckface and his gang went - check, goons coming to kill said people - check, won't be able to find out where Fuckface is if they all die - check. Clearly, we have a problem here. The gears begin to turn in my bullet-ridden brain.

"Can you raise a militia to defend Goodsprings against this attack?"

"Sure, as bartender I'm also the de-facto mayor of this proud little town. I know Sunny is willing to fight with you," she nods her head with enthusiasm, "and most everyone else here is as well," shouts go up through the bar, "but we aren't an organized bunch here. We only have small rifles, revolvers and such. Not sure how much good that will be against dynamite."

I think for a moment, recalling something. "Sunny, you said Easy Pete used dynamite on that safe didn't you? Does he still have some?"

A smile lights up her face. "Yeah, he has a bunch of it. I'll go get him to start handing it out!" She quickly rushes past me and exits the saloon.

Trudy looks at me. "Alright, then I'll start gathering everyone in town. We'll meet outside the saloon in five minutes to take defensive positions."

I nod. "I think I'll go have a quick visit with Ringo, see if he knows anything that might help us."

I wave a quick good bye and exit the saloon, re-emerging into the dusty desert town of Goodsprings. I step off the porch and run up the road to the gas station. There is a flurry of activity on the streets as I pass by, people running to and fro to gather weapons and the men to use them. Getting in the middle of this kind of fight is the last thing I had wanted, but time is short, and my options are limited. The 'Powder Gangers' were coming, and I had to help fight them.

Who came up with that stupid name anyway?

It only takes me a few seconds to get up there. The gas station is just an old, decrepit garage, with an overhang out front, and a tall sign that says 'Poseidon Energy' standing to the left of the building. The windows are boarded, there is a broken down truck parked by it, and a Sunset Sarsaparilla machine near the doorway.

I quickly move over to the door and force it open with my shoulder. Not the brightest idea, I'll admit, as I come face to face with a drawn handgun.

"That's close enough. Who are you, and what do you want with me?"

This must be Ringo, I assume. He's wearing a red checkered shirt, a bandana around his neck, and a pack on his side with the NCR emblem embroidered on it. He looks like he's young, in his twenties or so. He holds his gun on me, with a surprised and cautious look on his face. His eyes linger on my missing left arm for a moment.

"I'm not an enemy, if that's what you're asking." I reply with sarcasm.

"Sorry about the gun," he says as he puts it back in his holster. "You just caught me off guard, that's all."

He looks at me for a moment. "We got off to a bad start. Why don't we start over with a friendly game of caravan?"

I raise my eyebrow. "There's no time for cards pal. Joe Cobb was just gunned down in the saloon," I smile. "The Powder Gangers are coming for your ass."

"What? Oh that's just great! Cobb I could have dealt with, but his friends are a much bigger problem. There's no way I can handle them all on my own."

"Well, you don't have to. Goodsprings is as deep in the shit as you are now. They're organizing a group to fight them."

He sighs in relief. "Well, that's good to hear. At least they aren't just handing me over to them."

"What did you do to get them so pissed at you anyway?"

"I was part of a caravan that was bringing some explosives up to Sloan for the Quarry Junction. We were coming up from the Mojave Outpost, and were just outside of Primm when they attacked us. No warning, no chance to surrender, they just started shooting. It was a bloodbath. They quickly gunned down our mercs and started picking off the rest of us, then they moved on the town. I managed to take out a few of them though. I guess that's why they're after me."

Primm? I rub my forehead in frustration. If these 'Powder Gangers' had taken over Primm then the Mojave Express office had likely been raided as well, and Johnson Nash, the one who would know the details of my package, was probably dead. Worse, if Fuckface had passed through there then any leads on him might be dead as well, or Fuckface himself could be dead and my platinum chip taken to God knows where.

It could prove advantageous in dealing with these inmates though...

"If they hit you near Primm, they must be coming from the I-15 corridor right? That means they'll probably attack from the southern road into Goodsprings."

"Yeah, they were definitely chasing me up that road. I don't know where they are now though."

I think for a moment, an idea beginning to form in my mind.

"Are you willing to fight with us?"

He looks surprised for a moment, but then a look of determination sets in. "Gladly, it's the least I can do after bringing them up here. I'd love nothing more than to help kill a few more of them."

"Good," I smile. "Let's head out then. Trudy should have everyone gathered by now."

He nods and we take off out of the gas station.

True to her word, Trudy has nearly everyone in town assembled outside of the saloon. Sunny Smiles and Easy Pete are passing around sticks of dynamite, Chet is handing out rifles and ammunition, even Doc Mitchell is there. There were about 30 people gathered from all walks of life; farmers, settlers, prospectors, bighorner ranchers, drunkards; a motley, ragtag band of militia that would be facing a gang of explosive-ridden convict escapees that even the 'mighty' NCR couldn't contain.

I drop my pack and take a seat on the porch of the Prospector Saloon, watching as they scramble about and carry out last minute tasks. I reach into my pocket and pull out one of the drums for my 1911, then retrieve a box of ammo from my pack. I place the drum firmly between my knees and start loading it with .45 ACP hollow points with my remaining hand. One round, two rounds, three rounds...

I observe the crowd with vague disinterest as I load my ammo. The fear and apprehension are palpable in the air. There is a sense of growing desperation in the group around me at the thought of fighting to protect their homes. Some of them tremble or stand rigidly, their fear obvious and plain to see on their faces; while others showcase a false sense of bravado - attempting to reassure the rest by displaying courage, though their nervous expressions and body language betray their real emotions.

Nine rounds, ten, eleven, twelve...

For me, a group of hyped up ex-cons - armed with dynamite - is just the next dump in a long line of dumps taken on my shit hole life; but the biggest threats most of these people have faced are geckos, molerats, or the occasional radscorpion. Never anything like this before. Most of them probably wouldn't live to see the end of the day, and they know it. Me? I don't really give a shit...

Twenty rounds, twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three...

Trudy had naturally, and impressively, slid into her role as de-facto mayor and town leader. She was busy coordinating the volunteers, conducting last minute checks, and organizing them into some semblance of order. The town looked up to her and followed her lead, though she too seemed inexperienced in the art of war.

Thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three, thirty-four...

Sunny Smiles seems a bit tense, though her enthusiasm to protect the town and rout it's attackers motivates her, and that energy gives her an edge. She is running about, acting as Trudy's 'lieutenant', while Easy Pete is versing the militia on how to use dynamite. The old man, for his part, seems calm, though a bit wrangled and on edge. His advanced age alone speaks of his experience, though his creaky bones cast doubt on his combat ability.

Thirty nine, forty rounds... with one drum fully loaded I set it aside and start on the next one - calmly and quietly preparing my weapons, while controlled anarchy reigns around me.

Chet exudes a temperance of calm boldness, though I can see the underlying fear that's gripping his heart. His lack of combat experience and fortitude are obvious to the experienced eye, though he consumes himself in his familiar task of handing out supplies to push that fear to the back of his mind. Perhaps he would serve better in the rear...

Doc Mitchell, oddly, seems to be the most hardened of the entire group. His calmness is genuine, and not an act to soothe himself or others. His facial expression, his body language, and his quiet demeanor all show a strong fortitude that betrays his experience to the perceptive. His eyes hold an edge that reveal how versed he is in the matters of grief and loss, and the way he holds his rifle shows his fierce determination to protect his home and town. He meets my gaze with a subtle nod.

Easy Pete eventually reaches me with his dynamite and begins to offer me some, though he hesitates for a moment, casting a questioning glance at my missing left arm. I reassure him with a confident smile, and nod, then place the dynamite in my jacket once he relents.

With my drums loaded - I move on to the eight and ten round standard magazines. I load an assortment of armor piercing, hollow points and ball ammunition; giving me the right tool for whatever job may present itself.

Weapons are passed around, orders are given, guns are readied. I calmly take out my Colt with precious delicacy and lock the 40 round drum in place, then I release the slide lock to chamber the round. The 1911 exudes breathtaking beauty by itself, but the attached drum magazine completes this masterpiece.

It's go time.

"Alright, listen up!" I shout. "Ringo says the Powder Gangers are coming up from the I-15 approach, so here's what we're going to do..."

* * *

><p>The air is hot and humid; the sky, bright and clear; and the sun is bearing down, high in the Nevada afternoon. I wipe the sweat from my brow with my hand; absently watching the buzzards circling overhead - anticipating the feast of death to come. I intend to help them eat well tonight...<p>

We take up our positions near the outskirts of Goodsprings, on the long road that connects to the I-15 - not far from the welcome sign on the edge of town. The main militia force - led by Trudy, Sunny Smiles, and myself - is spread out along the sides of the road; our positions concealed by large desert rocks and wasteland brush, while others were lying prone in the ditches by the pavement. The group consists of 18 men and women, mostly armed with shotguns, single shot rifles and semi-automatic weapons. We would comprise the first line of defense and be the first to engage the attacking convicts.

'Sharpshooters' with .30-06 and .270 rifles were posted on the ridges behind us, and on some of the rooftops in town. Doc Mitchell is commanding these men from a bluff overlooking the area. Their role is, obviously, to support us by eliminating as many convicts as humanly possible.

Chet had been assigned back in Goodsprings, with a small group of reserves that would guard the towns rear; Ringo had been given a similar 'role', due to the death warrant the Powder Gangers had out on him; while Easy Pete had insisted on 'observer' status for the sake of his joints. That's not to say he wouldn't contribute though...

All plans were set, all preparations were in place, and all men were deployed. We were in a strong position, with a plan that had not only anticipated chaos and anarchy - but was actually built around it. We would almost have to _try,_ to actually lose this.

Yet, through all of this fear and trepidation around me, a subtle thought had been tearing at the back of my mind since I left the saloon; one that I had been trying to bury beneath my planning, preparations and focus on this looming battle.

_Why _am I doing this?

I had not fought with a militia since... _the Divide_... the place that I had carved from the earth, with my bare hand, upon arriving in the West.

It had started out simply enough. I had finally realized, after drifting across an entire _continent_, that the wounds from my past would never heal - that I could never escape the pain, no matter how far I walked, no matter where I traveled. I didn't even know what I was searching for in the first place. I had finally grown tired of wandering. I gave up looking for a place to _live,_ and began looking for a place to simply _exist_. I linked up with a group of explorers I had met south of the Grand Canyon, and together we created the Divide - a small encampment near the abandoned cities of Hopeville and Ashton, on the edges of the California and Nevada border.

Caesar had been too busy waging war with the NCR to take notice of us, or our new community; while the relatively small, secluded and unsettled nature of the area allowed it to escape the attention of the NCR... for a time. That had all changed when we started trading with other settlements through a road I forged as a courier. Our small, remote, community began to grow and prosper; developing into a thriving center of trade and commerce. It became a corridor that connected two states.

Things were... better, in those days... that is, until the annexation happened. As the Divide grew, so did the attention it received from corrupt and power hungry men. The NCR recognized the link it provided to the Mojave, and Caesar had sought to 'cut' that link with his Frumentarii. Years of hardship and struggle had been for naught. The Divide was taken from us, dashed and trampled afoot by the NCR and Caesar.

I delivered one final package, then turned my back and walked away. I had not returned since.

So _why_ am I doing this now?

Logic would dictate this course of action as a matter of convenience. Trudy and the people of Goodsprings were my only link to the men who had attacked me. If they died, I would not only be far behind my assailants, I would be aimless as well. My reasons are cold, calculating, and selfish. This is what I tell myself - yet, logic will not dismiss conscience, and I can't shake this annoying sense... that this is all for some higher purpose - that something greater is at stake now. It stirs emotions that I haven't felt since my childhood...

I look down at the object in my hand with a sudden longing, having taken it out without even realizing it. It's a simple doll, stitched with fabric and straw, and fashioned into the figure of a person. A little girl named Tammy had given me this near Hopeville, right before I left the Divide for the final time.

_'This is so you can always remember us, and never forget your home!'_

I absently stroke its head with my thumb, awash in memories of the places and people I knew there. This simple thing, this child's toy, was a link to my past and the promise of a better future...

"Here they come!" Doc Mitchell suddenly shouts from the top of the ridge behind me, interrupting my thoughts and memories. I shake my head, quickly shoving the doll back into my jacket and forcing my mind back into the present. I yank my 1911 out of the holster, then look around the edge of a desert rock and size up the group of advancing enemies.

Here they come indeed. A whole fucking lot of them at that, about 75 yards down the street and heading directly for us. They move slowly and in the open; carrying NCR service rifles, explosives, and other high powered weapons; while dressed in flashy correctional jackets, jumpsuits, prison security vests, and bandoleers packed with sticks of dynamite. They outnumber us two to one, and are much better armed.

_My life just keeps getting better..._

"Get ready! Don't fire until you have a clear shot." Trudy commands.

Our militia were divided into three groups of five; with Trudy, Sunny and myself each leading a group. The idea is that each squad would take turns shooting and throwing dynamite, to keep a consistent balance of both bullets _and_ explosives flying at them.

Sunny's squad watches them draw closer for a moment, then they take out their lighters and light the fuses on their dynamite. The rest of the militia groups raise their weapons and take aim from behind cover, tensely fingering their triggers as the convicts approach - still oblivious to our presence. I carefully aim and select my target - a shirtless convict with a bandoleer on his chest - as Sunny and her squad send their dynamite flying. The sticks tumble end over end in an upward arc before coming down on the inmates. Three of them fall harmlessly off to the side of the road, while the other two land right at their feet; barely giving them any time to shout as the blasts go off, blowing off legs and sending body parts flying.

I quickly lean out and gun down the shirtless Powder Ganger with two .45 ACP rounds to the chest as the rest of the militia opens fire. Doc Mitchell picks off one of the lead gangers with a .30-06 headshot from the top of the ridge, while two more drop from the gunfire of Trudy's group. The rest of the Powder Gangers dash behind cover and return fire, causing all hell to break loose.

I take a few more shots from behind my rock, but quickly pull my head back as five quick rounds bounce off it in return. The militia fire mostly .22LR and 12 gauge calibers, though a variety of .30-06, .270, 9mm, .357 magnum and others are sent down range as well. One of our advantages is that we are on top of a hill, giving us the high ground and a good picture of their movements. Most of them are crouched behind rocks and debris like us, and are taking potshots with service and scoped hunting rifles. The initial attack killed half a dozen of them, but they still hold a sizable numbers advantage over our motley group.

I target one of the cons that's shooting at us from behind an abandoned automobile, but Doc Mitchell lands a devastating headshot before I can fire, blowing his head apart like a grapefruit. Another one comes charging up the hill towards us, screaming and shooting wildly - his head quickly disappears in a spray of red mist, the headless body collapsing to the ground in a quivering heap. Others quickly duck at the sight, fearing the good doctor's 'surgical' precision.

Trudy's group is up next with the dynamite. The rest of us lay down a burst of suppressive fire on the attacking positions to buy them time. They light their fuses and quickly throw their dynamite - but one of their members takes a round through the eye socket before he can throw his, killing him instantly, and dropping the live stick of dynamite at their feet.

"Look out!" I shout, but my voice goes unheard over the volume of gunfire. I quickly run out from behind cover and grab Trudy, dragging her behind the nearest rock as the dynamite explodes in our midst. Screams ring out as the other four members of her squad are violently blown apart, but thankfully she - my only link to Fuckface - is still alive... as am I, of course!

She seems unhurt, though I can tell that she's shaken up by the near-death ordeal. Her eyes are wide as saucers and she seems to be mumbling something, which I can't make out anyway with my ears still ringing from the blast. I call her name and shake her a few times, but can't get her to answer. I look up just as another burst of fire passes overhead, hitting one of my team members through the skull and reducing our front line to just 12.

"Damnit!" I look over at the remaining members of my team, seeing them crouched behind their rocks and frozen in fear. "What are you chicken shits just standing there for? Throw your fucking dynamite!"

They look at me in bewilderment. Sighing, I quickly holster my pistol and pull out a couple of sticks of dynamite. I look over at Sunny, seeing her crouched and firing her varmint rifle behind some rocks. "Sunny," I shout, holding up my dynamite in my hand. "Light!"

She nods and brings her lighter over to me, she touches the flame to the fuses of both sticks. I hand her one of them and throw the other one, then she flips the second one to me and I throw it as well. The two sticks tumble into the midst of a charging group and explode with devastating efficiency - maiming at least five more Powder Gangers and throwing their bloody remains into the air. This finally inspires the rest of the squad to throw their own dynamite, most of it inaccurately, but one stick connects and sends another convict flying. With that done, I quickly draw my 1911 and fire off a few more rounds as the militia continue to exchange ferocious gunfire with the attacking ex-cons.

I turn my attention back to Trudy as the battle rages on. She's still lying in the same spot, eyes wide and unresponsive. Sunny ducks down and tries to help me snap her out of it, but it doesn't do any good, as she continues to lie in a trance like state. I then catch a glimpse of red, tumbling down towards us out of the air - the Powder Gangers are throwing dynamite! The stick bounces off the rock and lands right beside my feet, sizzling and crackling as the fuse burns down. I quickly put my gun down and grab it with a shriek, then throw it away from us. Other sticks come flying in and detonate in the middle of our ranks, killing three more militia and violently tearing them to pieces.

Our militia line was down to just nine survivors. We had no chance of holding this position against the Powder Gangers. If we stayed here much longer we would be slaughtered. We had to get out of here.

"Retreat! Fall back to the saloon!" I shout to the rest of the Goodsprings militia. They take a few more potshots and quickly disengage, taking off down the road under the cover of Doc Mitchell's protective gaze. The battle was by no means over. We still hadn't played our ace in the hole yet...

I reach down to pick up my Colt as another stick of dynamite comes flying in. This time it lands beside Sunny and Trudy, neither of them aware of it. I race over to them and plow into Sunny, pushing her harshly out of the way, before rolling and dragging Trudy behind another rock formation. The dynamite explodes, once again ringing my ears and showering the area with shrapnel. The rock protects us from most of the blast, but Sunny isn't as lucky; she cries out in pain, having taken a bit of the damage. I shake the fog away, then quickly move over to her side.

"Are you alright Sunny?"

"Ahhh, my leg, it's my leg!" She writhes on the ground, clutching her knee in pain.

"Is it bad?"

"I'll be fine. Don't worry about me, just go help Trudy."

"Can you walk?"

She attempts to sit up, but quickly doubles over. "I don't think so. It's alright, just leave me here. You have to help Trudy!"

I look between the two of them, biting my lip as bullets fly around us and the Powder Gangers approach our position. The militia was gone. Trudy and Sunny were both immobile, and our attackers were quickly closing in on us. I could either call it a day, and bolt my ass out of here... or I could stay and fight for them, put others above myself for once. I had a chance to do what _he_ would have done.

I sigh, and set my Colt down, then fumble around in my pocket for a syringe of med-x. I couldn't just leave them here like this, either of them. My own life has never meant a thing to me, I even desire to be rid of it; but when it comes to the lives of others, the rules change. My stupid conscience will get me killed someday, perhaps right now... but at least it would be on my own terms, and for something meaningful; not tied up and executed like a damn dog in some dirty, unmarked graveyard.

I quickly inject the syringe into Sunny's leg, then I pick up my 1911 and turn my attention back to rousing Trudy from her stupor. I scream her name and shake her a few more times, sensing that we were about to be overrun, but absolutely nothing works. Exasperated, I finally pull my pistol back and whip her hard across the face. The force of the impact sends her head flying backwards, and quickly gets her attention - as an angry scowl develops on her face and she punches me in the jaw. The blow catches me by surprise and knocks me flat on my ass, with a split lip.

Guess I deserved that... but shit, it fucking hurts! I wipe the blood from my chin with the back of my gun hand, and spit out the rest. Oh well, at least it worked...

"We're retreating back to the saloon," I tell her. "We have to get out of here!"

She takes a quick look around at the situation, then quickly nods her head and jumps to her feet.

"Sunny is injured, can you help her get back to town?"

"What about you?" She asks me.

"I'll buy you time to escape, now go!"

Trudy looks at me for a moment, then hesitantly nods and moves over to help Sunny to her feet. She quickly drags Sunny up, and supporting her weight on her shoulder, they slowly begin to make their way back to the saloon... leaving me alone, to fight a hoard of escaped convicts by myself.

Oh well, this _is_ what I wanted... I think...

"The cowards flee! Move forward boys, haha, time for rape and pillage!"

A scowl darkens my face as I hear them approaching - just a few feet away from me now. I holster my 1911 again and pull out another stick of dynamite, then I desperately search around for a lighter, hearing the footsteps of the ex-cons behind me. I finally find one in the hands of a dead militia fighter and use it to light the end of the dynamite. I press my back against the rock and fling it blindly behind me. The stick detonates in a loud explosion, turning several Powder Gangers into mincemeat and sending their body parts flying overhead.

"Shit!"

"Kill that bitch!"

I lean out from behind the rock and score a direct headshot with my Colt, the .45 ACP round enters the forehead cleanly and blows a section out the back of the skull. This instantly reveals my position to the rest of the Powder Gangers, and they turn their guns on me like an enraged cazador nest. Service rifles, hunting rifles, handguns, even a grenade launcher are all unleashed in a lethal barrage of firepower. I keep my head down, allowing the rocks to absorb the bullets and shrapnel as the Powder Gangers approach.

I briefly stick my head up to see what I'm dealing with. There are at least 25 of them remaining, advancing slowly while firing to keep me pinned down. A round whizzes past my forehead, while three more bounce off the rock, and a grenade explodes a few feet away. I squeeze off three more rounds, hitting one convict in the chest and another in the leg, before dropping back into cover. The gangers open up with several more bursts of gunfire, while I pull out my last piece of dynamite and light it with the discarded lighter. I toss it around the corner and obliterate several more of them in a fiery explosion.

The Powder Gangers open up with renewed fury in response. Several more grenades explode behind my cover, while withering amounts of rifle and pistol fire fly around me. I stick my Colt around the corner of the rock and blindly squeeze off several more rounds just to keep them at bay. The gunfire is too intense to expose myself, and I'm trying to keep them from getting a bead on Sunny and Trudy, who are still limping away from the skirmish. If I can just hold on long enough for them to make it out - I might have a chance... if not, well... it would still have been worth it.

A sizzling stick of dynamite suddenly lands beside me, catching me by surprise. Not having time to react, I quickly dive towards some nearby brush, but it explodes before I can get away, throwing me harshly into the dirt and searing some light shrapnel wounds onto my back. I cry out in pain as I land, grasping my back with my hand as a throbbing pain starts to race down it. I take a moment to recover and compose myself as the smoke clears, then lift my face off the dirt and look around for my 1911. I spot it lying a few feet away in a pile of brush, having been tossed from my hand in the blast.

Knowing that I have no time, I begin to crawl forward, gritting my teeth and cringing in pain as I pull myself towards the gun with my remaining hand. I can hear the rapid and numerous footfalls of the Powder Gangers bearing down on me, the sound growing closer and closer as I crawl towards my gun with a renewed fervor. I reach my arm out, within grabbing distance... only to have a heavy boot come down on top of my hand, pinning it to the desert floor.

I cry out in pain, looking up into the sun - at the faces of my attackers... all two dozen of them.

"Well, well, well, boys. Look at what we got here."

I scowl in defiance while grinding my teeth, not willing to give them an inch.

"Feisty isn't she? This little bitch has been causing us all kinds of problems today."

He grinds down on my hand while cackling at my pain, popping my knuckles and forcing me to scream.

"What's the matter freak? Need a _hand_?"

They all break out in laughter at that, mocking my condition and thoroughly enjoying the abuse.

"Fuck... you." I grind out through clenched teeth.

His face darkens and he kicks me sharply in the ribs. Once, twice, three brutal kicks, knocking the wind out of my lungs.

"Bitch, I'll teach you the appropriate respect."

He kicks me two more times for good measure, leaving me gasping in pain, and attempting to catch my breath.

"What do you guys think we should we do with her?"

"Just put a bullet in her head and be done with it," one of them responds. I almost laugh at the irony - despite my current situation. "Ringo and the rest of them are still waiting for us up there."

"Nah, I say we take her back to Eddie," another replies. "I'd love a chance to break that feisty spirit of hers."

"Yeah, besides take a look at that ass! It'd be such a shame to waste it, painting the desert with her pretty little brains."

I look back over at my Colt as they argue with each other. It's still just a couple of feet away, I may have a chance...

"I say we-" I suddenly leap over towards my 1911, using their distraction to grasp it, but the leader notices and kicks me sharply in the face before I can get a solid grip - knocking me over, dazing my senses and forcing me to let go of the gun.

"Stupid bitch!" He kicks me three more times in the back, right on the shrapnel wounds I received from the dynamite. I nearly black out from the pain.

He pulls a handgun out of his pocket and cocks the slide, chambering a round. My vision dances as he walks over to me - two distinct images of the Mojave coalesce into one, and I can see that Trudy and Sunny have escaped. I look up into the barrel of his gun with a light smile on my face.

"Time to die bitch."

The shot comes... but it's not the one I was expecting. The leader's head disintegrates from his shoulders, spraying me and the other Powder Gangers with blood and gore.

Doc Mitchell is back on the ridge.

The rest of the Powder Gangers quickly move behind cover, while the other three open up on Mitchell's position with their rifles, completely forgetting about me.

Seeing my opportunity, I quickly dive over and grab my 1911, then raise it and fire five quick shots at close range - gunning down the three Powder Gangers with head and body shots. Doc Mitchell fires off more sniper rounds, forcing them to keep their heads down.

Using all of my strength, I lift myself to my feet and make a break for it, fighting through the pain and running in the direction of Goodsprings. Doc Mitchell takes a few more shots to cover me, then he too takes off.

The Powder Gangers pursue us in rage, firing off dozens of rifle rounds as I move down the street. The bullets whiz past my head and chest, some hitting the ground at my feet as I run. I dash behind a nearby telephone pole, using it as cover as the convicts focus their fire on my position. Bullets pepper the pole as the Powder Gangers move up and spread out in a firing line. I stay behind it and wait until a few of them stop to reload, then I move back into the open and shoot another one with my 1911, before taking off towards Goodsprings again.

I move at a breakneck speed; fueled by pure, raging adrenaline as bullets fly all around me. The pain from my wounds is a distant memory, the epinephrine allowing me to move unhindered and without regard to death or danger. The sight of the Goodsprings town line fills me with new inspiration, especially as rooftop shooters begin firing down on them.

The Powder Gangers do not relent, instead they push forward with relentless fury, determined to destroy the town and kill everything in it. I take a few shots behind me as more bullets come flying in, the convicts now dividing their attention between me and the rooftop shooters.

Finally, the Prospector Saloon comes into view. The retreating militia and a few reserves have formed a firing line around the saloon, using various things from motorcycles to crates and a truck for cover. Doc Mitchell redeploys on another distant ridge, and more rooftop shooters come into range on the Powder Gangers. I run ahead of the main attacking line and finally arrive at the saloon.

Trudy looks at me with a relieved, if not awestruck expression; Sunny's leg has a makeshift bandage and tourniquet wrapped around it, and she is lying prone, behind some crates in the firing line. Both of them show great relief that I had made it, and deep gratitude for what I had done for them. I smile faintly and nod, then turn and join them, standing behind a motorcycle.

The Powder Gangers continue their slow advance, and the entire militia firing line opens up outside of the saloon. 22LR and .357 rounds cut into the attacking ranks, while rooftop shooters rain sniper fire down on them - killing a few more. I target a convict in a blue jumpsuit and squeeze off a couple of rounds with my 1911, both shots hit the chest and tear through heart and lungs, instantly choking him to death in his own blood.

They return fire on us, marching steadily forward. Two more militia on my right and left are hit in the head and are dead before they touch the ground, while many rounds bounce off of the motorcycle I'm crouching behind, and others break through the glass windows of the saloon. The Powder Gangers inch ever closer; emboldened and assured of their victory.

I glance over at the truck to my left, seeing Easy Pete crouched down behind it. He looks over at us with a questioning gaze, and I shake my head.

Not yet...

The rest of the Powder Gangers have moved up from behind and joined with the front rank for the final attack on the saloon. They march forward, releasing vast amounts of gunfire wildly in a psychotic rage. They outnumber us greatly and believe they are invincible... but are too absorbed in their blood lust to notice the wires at their feet.

"Now!" I shout at Easy Pete. Everyone immediately drops into cover as Easy Pete pushes down on the detonator box.

A massive string of explosions go off, deafening ears, and blowing all of the glass out of the saloon. One detonation, after another, after another, after another, a long chain of fiery death rises into the air and spreads down the roadway; blowing off body parts, melting organs, and flaying skin. We had wired the roadway with every explosive left in Easy Pete's arsenal, creating a vast kill zone. The militia had been the bait to lure them in, and the Powder Gangers - as anticipated - had swallowed it whole, driven by their sociopathic rage and insatiable desire to kill.

The blasts continue for a few more seconds as the last of the dynamite explodes, then a quiet calm settles over the area as smoke rises into the sky, thick and billowing, obscuring our view of the street. The wasteland breeze blows in and gradually clears the smoke, revealing a scene of utter carnage.

Bodies are torn apart like ground up brahmin hamburger, severed limbs and organs are lying limp in the street, while scattered pools of blood run down the pavement. The large force of attacking ex-cons has been reduced to a few pitiful remains. Only a handful of survivors are left amidst the devastation, either screaming in pain from missing limbs, or standing shell shocked with horror.

Two reserve units, led by Ringo and Chet, immediately sweep onto the roadway from their concealed positions within the town; cutting off their escape and surrounding the decimated convicts between us.

The entire militia opens fire, cutting them down in the crossfire.

The Powder Gangers are utterly annihilated.


End file.
